There. A small house. A cottage. No thought. Maya simply forced herself to run, falling forward as much as running as she made her way down the steeper far side of the hill. With Tommy Rawhead behind her, she ran, legs like thick branches tied together by loose elastic bands, her feet slapping the grass, her lungs burning, her vision beginning to swim. Across the grass she raced, and behind her she could hear Tommy’s stuttering cries of pleasure.
The cottage pulled into view. Single storied, made of horizontal logs, small windows with quartered, bottle glass panes. A chimney from which thin smoke arose. Front door, stout and shut. Hope surged in her chest. Another look over her shoulder, and then she screamed and threw herself onto the ground, rolling and banging her elbow, her shoulder jarring on the dirt, coming up in a scrabble of limbs as Rawhead’s razor swept through the space where her throat had been. His bubbling, clotted laughter, and then, instead of running away once more, fury exploded in her chest at the sound of his delight and she leapt
at
him.
He stank, stank of raw meat gone bad and stale sweat and dirt, but that was all sublimated by the sharp, intense shock of the Mace as she pressed the button down again. Liquid fizzed into the air, but this time Tommy was ready and simply swiped his razor through the air, neatly knocking the canister from her hand with the dull edge of the blade, nearly breaking her fingers in the process.
Fatigue and terror fused into sudden anger. This was ridiculous. Absurd. Livid, suddenly too lightheaded and furious to care, she screamed at the gangly horror before her. Balled her fists up and yelled her outrage at him. This somber land, that stupid fox, tricking her with her parents—it all came bubbling up and blasted out of her mouth in a ferocious yell.
And strangely enough, Tommy Rawhead fell back. Seemed diminished by her anger, his eyes losing their gleam. For a moment, Maya thought she heard the sound of golden bells pealing around her, resonating within her yell, and felt as if she could simply point a finger at Tommy and blast him from the surface of this strange land. But then the tolling of the bells passed, a wave of dizziness washed over her, and Tommy straightened.
Cold, sober fear washed over her. The thing had a razor. She had just yelled at it. Yelling was not considered an efficient form of combat. She was clearly going mad. One step, a wild turn, and she was running again. The cottage was close. Fifteen yards, ten, and then she threw herself at the door, began hammering at it with her fists, turned to look over her shoulder at where Tommy Rawhead had followed, still uncertain, but drawn by the scent of her fear.
The door opened and Maya fell forward into the arms of a surprisingly strong and wiry child. Regaining her balance, she turned and slammed the door closed.
“Ach, now there’s no need to be banging me door like that, is there?” said the child in a surprisingly angry tone. Turning, putting her back to the stout wooden boards, Maya looked at the kid and started. She was too tired to scream.
The boy was actually a well-dressed old man, with skin the color of nutmeg and wispy white hair about his ears and hanging from the end of his jaw. No taller than three feet, he was startlingly ugly, with the kind of face that might make you scream were you to catch it watching you through the kitchen window one night when you went down to get a glass of water. He had no nose but rather two broad slits, and his mouth was puckered and lacking most of its teeth. His eyes were large and seemed to bulge from his head, but that was only because of how sunken they were in his prominent skull. Emaciated and wrinkled, it was only the stern, reproving look mixed with exasperated kindness that kept her from panicking. That and the fact that it was his door between her and Rawhead outside.
“I’m sorry, I just—wanted to close the door—on that thing outside.”
“Ach, that silly boggle? Whipper wapping his cutter about like he’s out for a shave?” The old man flapped both hands at her in dismissal and turned to walk back into the room, leaving her at the door. Only then did Maya look past him, and gaze about the inside of the cottage. It was larger within than it looked without. A fire burned with audible crackles and pops in the hearth, and all was orange, yellow and brown in hue, from the thick rugs that lay under the heavy furniture to the painted walls to a gorgeous tapestry of an old farm, replete with oxen pulling a plough through a broad chocolate field and men threshing hay.
“Silly boggle?” asked Maya, leaving the door reluctantly, wanting to keep her shoulder to it. “Rawhead and Bloody Bones is a silly boggle?”
The old man puttered around a large armchair and went to the fire where a black iron kettle was suspended over the flames. He picked up a stick, poked the kettle once or twice, and then turned to fix her with his beady eye.
“Ach, that Tommy is knowt more than a closet bogey, fit for frightening the children and making a fool of his self. Just you pay him no mind.”
“But…” said Maya, drifting over to the armchair. “But he seemed… he seemed really dangerous.” How could this little man not understand exactly how lethal that demented monster outside was? A demented monster, she realized, who had not attempted to get inside yet. And who had reacted rather surprisingly to getting yelled at.
“Ah no, there’s much worse out there to be afeared of, girl. Tommy Rawhead is trouble enough, but he pales when you go comparing him to the likes of the kelpie or Jack in Irons.”
“Oh,” said Maya, not reassured at all. “Well, good then.” The kettle began to keen, and the little man propped his stick against the stone wall and pattered over to a cupboard. Stone walls, realized Maya. They had been wood when she had—never mind.
“My name is Maya,” she said. “I’m from New York, but really Brazil. Guillaume brought me here, but I lost him when I stepped off the path. I don’t know where I was going, but I’m so tired I can’t even think straight.” She moved over to the armchair and plopped down into it. It was deliciously comfortable. The fabric was rich and thick and soft, the padding seeming to inhale her into the folds of the chair, and she felt like she was floating out of her body.
The little man, who had been busy pulling out glass bottles filled with spices, turned and fixed her with his gaze once more. “Oh aye?” He asked. “Well, that be mighty interesting. My name’s Tim Tom Tot.”
“Tim Tom Tot,” said Maya drowsily. Had he drugged her? No, he hadn’t even given her tea yet. Maybe in this land you got drugged before you drank the tea. She struggled to sit up, failed. So tired. It seemed years ago that Chang had tried to kiss her at the restaurant. The streets of Chinatown seemed like a surreal, Technicolor dream, intangible and vague. Nothing was more real than the warmth of the fire, the enveloping comfort of the faded orange armchair, the comforting smell of wood smoke and the thick stone walls between her and Tommy.
Tim Tom Tot said something, but Maya couldn’t make it out. She felt like she was sinking into warm honey. She closed her eyes, and slept.
Maya awoke curled up in the armchair, a heavy brown blanket that smelled of dry leaves draped over her. It was warm, and she felt luxuriously rested, without the resultant cramps and aches that usually came from falling asleep in a chair. It was as if she had developed the ability of a cat to drape herself sinuously over anything and be comfortable. She didn’t stir immediately. Lay still, feeling safe, breathing in the smells of autumn.
The fact that she was there, in the faded orange armchair under this deliciously thick blanket meant that it hadn’t been a dream. She stirred at last, pulled the edge of the blanket down, looked out over the room. Tim Tom Tot was gone, the room was empty, the fire having burned down low. But faint sunlight came in through the bottle glass windows, painting streaks of green and blue where it splashed on the walls and floor.
Rising, Maya paused to fold the blanket and then stretched. The room seemed to have grown smaller, more compact and homey. Raking her fingers through her hair, wishing for a brush and a mirror, she moved slowly to one of the windows. The furniture was old but solidly built, built to last the passing of the decades, centuries, perhaps. Stout and framed with wood, they all looked comfortable and a pleasure to use. A well-worn circular table of cinnamon colored wood, ringed by four small stools. Sideboards and shelves covered with knickknacks, curiously curled branches and overly large nuts and pinecones. A rocking chair by one window, a couple of cupboards by the wall, and the gorgeous, full sized tapestry depicting the idealized, bucolic life.
Maya looked around for her purse, saw it set next to a freshly baked loaf of bread on the table. Walking over, she saw a crock of butter, what looked like honey, and a pitcher of cream. She hesitated; it would be rude to serve herself without Tim Tom Tot’s permission. So instead she simply sat, pulled open her purse, and checked its contents idly. Shockingly, her pre-paid cell had no reception.
The door opened, and the little old man walked in. Maya dropped the cell in her purse and set it aside.
“Ah, awake are we?” asked the small man. He gave her an ugly smile, turned so as to shove the door closed, and then stomped over to the table to take the stool across from her.
“Yes, thank you. I slept very well.”
“Don’t be thanking me!” He looked suddenly angry, but it passed as quickly as a cloud passing before the sun. “And of course you did, course you did,” he said, distracted by the sight of the butter and honey and cream. Without preamble or prayer he began to serve himself, tearing a hunk of bread free and lathering it with butter. “Yer welcome to the sleep, seemed that you might of needed some.”
“Yes,” said Maya. She hesitated for a moment longer, but then smiled and reached out for the pitcher of cream at his impatient nodding that she do so. “I was really lucky to find your cottage so close.”
“Fortunate?” He asked, mouth full. He washed the bread down with a swig of cream, and then shook his head. “There was nowt lucky about it, girl.”
“Oh? You mean, as in you believe in fate, or something?”
“Ach, fate is for the truly powerful or the foolish. You’re neither—not yet. No, I came because you pulled me here. Simple as hampen stampen.”
Maya looked at him carefully. Chose to smear some amber honey on the bread instead of answering first. “I pulled you?”
“Aye, you think I’d build my cottage here in this dark and dreary place? Not I!” He nodded firmly, and stuffed another hunk of bread in his mouth, crumbs falling everywhere.
“Oh,” said Maya. “I didn’t know I could do that. How did… how
did
I do that?”
“Orf,” said Tim Tom Tot, “Youf jusht make a fink of it.” He paused, dry swallowed massively, and then wiped the back of his wrist across his puckered lips. “I said, you’re Summer rising. Not to say you’ll make it to full bloom, but you’ve got the fixings of power to you already.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Maya. Her comfort and peace of mind were growing tattered again. “I’m summer rising?”
Tim Tom Tot refilled his cup of cream, and then set it down and fixed her with his gaze. “Aye, of course, girl! You think Guillaume would have attended to you if you were ought but catching fire?” A pause. “The Seelie Court. You’re entering our orbit, like, gathering resonance to yourself.”
Maya placed both hands on the table top, took a deep breath, and then fixed him with a gaze of her own. “Tim Tom Tot. I don’t know what you mean. Can’t any of you speak clearly?”
Tim Tom Tot chortled, amused. “Speak clear? I couldn’t speak more clearly if I tried. The Seelie Court, girl, the Host of the Blessed, the kindly fae that walk at twilight and not at night.” He paused, watched her for dawning comprehension, saw none. Tried again, speaking slower as if to a slightly challenged child, “We fae who bow to the sun and the summer, who delight in light and in laughter. Not all are so simple, and many are lief to switch their allegiance, but on the whole, a kindly lot, well intentioned, the good folk.”
“Oh,” said Maya. “Oh, I see. So Tommy Rawhead—“
“Is a member of the Unseelie Court, the damned and the dark, the wretched and cunning and low. A miserable lot.” He shrugged his boney shoulders, wiped crumbs from his whiskers and beard.
“And I called you,” said Maya, musing. “Because I’m becoming a part of the Seelie Court?”
“You’ve the comprehension of a two year old, and a drunk one at that!” said Tim Tom Tot, throwing his hands up. “Hampen stampen, I’ve a mind to crack open your noggin to let the light in. Haven’t I said just that?”
“So I’m becoming a fairy?” asked Maya, ignoring him. She looked down at herself, at her hands.
“Ach, it’s not as simple as all that. You’ve been vouchsafed by the Smiling Jack, and your star is ascending. Where you’ll end, I cannot say, but you’ve got the glimmerings of Glamour to you now. It’s how you pulled me here.”
“Oh,” said Maya. She sipped the cream. It was thick, luscious, cool and delicious. “I think I see. But, okay, who is this Smiling Jack, and why me? Guillaume wouldn’t say.”
Tim Tom Tot gripped his head with both hands and screwed his eyes closed. “You’re going to cause my head to burst with all your horrible questions!” He grimaced and swayed from side to side as if on the deck of a heaving boat, and then let his hands fall. “Smiling Jack, the Green Man, Puck and master, Lord of Summer, Lord of Laughter. He took a fancy a your legs most like. He likes a good pair of legs. The taste of your sorrow, the color of your spirit, the tang of your choler.” He shrugged his shoulders once more, and pushed an improbable amount of bread, butter and honey into his mouth.
“Oh,” said Maya. She finished her own slice of bread with careful bites, absently enjoying the dark, earthen taste, the sweet honey. “So what do I do now?”
Tim Tom Tot licked his wrinkled lips with a leathery tongue, and wiped his wrist against the back of his nostril slits. His eyes gleamed as he stared at her. “Do what you like, girl. This is the kind of dance you make up as you go along. If you’re to stay here with Tim Tom Tot, you’ll have to learn to shut your yammering trap. Too many questions will drive me barmy, and this is supposed to be my retirement.”